


that rips the clothing off your mind

by Glitter_Lisp



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: All hurt no comfort, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Internalized Victim Blaming, POV Second Person, Shiro (Voltron)'s Missing Year, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 09:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21505627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glitter_Lisp/pseuds/Glitter_Lisp
Summary: You wish you could say it was rebellion, a refusal to slaughter your fellow prisoners. You wish you could say you were dragged kicking and screaming or threatened at gunpoint. You wish, if nothing else, that you could say you hesitated. You wish there was one damn thing you could say to justify it.But the truth is this: she said she would give you more food, and your knees hit the ground before she finished speaking.-----Or: the things you'll do to stay out of the arena.
Relationships: Haggar/Shiro (Voltron)
Kudos: 14





	that rips the clothing off your mind

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS NOT A HAPPY FIC. PLEASE DO NOT EXPECT THIS TO BE A HAPPY FIC. Shiro is never physically forced and there is nothing terribly explicit, but this is still 100% noncon, only tagged as dubcon because of the way Shiro views it.
> 
> Title from Flyleaf's "The Kind," which inspired this FIC like three years ago and that I just remembered on the way home from work today.

You wish you could say it was rebellion, a refusal to slaughter your fellow prisoners. You wish you could say you were dragged kicking and screaming or threatened at gunpoint. You wish, if nothing else, that you could say you hesitated. You wish there was one damn thing you could say to justify it. 

But the truth is this: she said she would give you more food, and your knees hit the ground before she finished speaking. 

She walks down the aisle between the cells and you scramble to your feet even though your left leg is still bleeding and it won't support your weight. If she's coming for you, she'll want you ready and waiting and eager and god, you are, you're damn near desperate. Anything to get out of the arena, out of this cell, out of your own mind. 

Her footsteps pause outside your door. There's no window and no sound, but she has a presence to her, impossible to miss unless she chooses to hide it. The guards and the other prisoners can feel it too, you're sure. They shift and mutter to each other and look around uneasily whenever she comes near, anxious and twitchy. _You_ would be bouncing on your feet with excitement if it didn't hurt too much. 

She walks away. 

“No!” You know better than to pound on the door, but you press your palms against it and lean in so close that your lips brush the metal as you beg. “Please, please, I'll be good, please, don't you want me, I'll be so–”

The door slides open. You stumble forward, and she catches you. Her hands are icy and her nails sharp against your skin. You sob with relief. 

“There now,” she coos. “So strong, so brave. Not afraid to beg. What a good boy you are, my champion.”

You nod. She says you're good. That means you are. 

You can't walk, and she doesn't offer to support you as you limp after her. When you inevitably fall after a few steps, she doesn't stop walking. 

You crawl. 

There's noise coming from the other cells. Cursing, screaming, jeering. They hate her because she hurts them. They hate you because they're jealous of you. You hope, viciously, that they enjoy the arena. 

Her quarters are not warm, and her bed is not soft. It's a palace compared to your cell. You don't bother to stand—you would have gotten on your knees anyways the moment the door slid shut behind you. 

There is a plate sitting on the small table by the wall. You would be drooling, if you weren't so dehydrated. As it is you're thirsty enough that your head spins and your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth, but if she offers you the food first you'll take it, even if you struggle to chew it. You'll take what she gives you and you'll never be able to express your thanks that she gives you anything at all. 

She lets you kneel at her feet, between her legs, while she feeds you and gives you small sips of cool water from her own plate and cup. Your eyes burn with gratitude and you kiss her fingers, suck one into your mouth until she laughs and swats at you with her other hand. 

When she decides you're done eating (your belly is almost full for the first time in days and you could almost cry for how amazing it feels) she guides your head forward and lets you thank her. You do, twice. 

In the beginning, you tried to picture yourself with someone else. It felt like tainting their memory, so you stopped. Better to face this head on, better to know what you're doing, better to admit it. If you're going to do this to yourself, you're not going to pretend it's anything other than what it is. 

There's nothing to pretend anymore. You squirm and buck your hips into the empty air and moan against her. When she fists her hand in your hair and drags you upward, you gasp and kiss her like you're dying. She tastes like the remains of dinner. You, you're sure, taste like her. 

Her other hand, the one not trying to rip your hair out of your scalp, darts down between your legs. You do the same for her, because fair is fair and she likes it when you use the arm. She _loves_ it when you use the arm. You love using it for something other than its intended purpose. 

Unless this _is_ its intended purpose. Maybe the arena is the exception to the rule. Maybe she made you just for this and oh, _oh,_ there's a thought. It sets something squirming in your stomach, the thought that maybe she's wanted you like this for so long. You don't care to examine the feeling. 

Later, when you've given everything you have and she's taken even more out of you, you lie panting and trembling on her bed and don't think about the way your gut twists with something like love when you look at her. 

“You're going to see the druids tomorrow,” she rasps. You don't have the energy or the stupidity to complain, but you can't bite back the broken whimper. She looks at you sharply, and your heart freezes. She softens, and it shatters. 

“There now,” she says, petting down your side, and you press closer even when her nails drag painfully down your bare skin. “That means you won't be in the arena tomorrow, doesn't it? This is to make you stronger. This is to keep you alive when you fight, so you'll still be here the next time I come for you.”

You nod. You want to stay out of the arena. You want to be stronger, and alive, and ready when she comes for you. 

Four days later they carry you back to your cell, twitching and moaning. You are stronger, you can feel the new solidity to your body after whatever they injected you with slid its way into your bones, but you also feel like you're burning from the inside out. You drag yourself to the back wall and curl up in the corner, your back to the door. Eventually they'll deem you ready to fight again, and you'll go out and kill whoever they put in front of you. You'll come back here, then go back out and kill again, and the cycle will repeat until she comes for you. 

You swallow back bile. You bite down a sob. 

You can't wait. 


End file.
